Dead Men Tell No Tales
by devilherdue
Summary: Companion piece to "The Shape of Things to Come." -- A look at a MC/Alistair relationship through the eyes of Riordan, Loghain, and Duncan. One-shot.


**A/N**: Short, hopefully sweet. Companion piece to "The Shape of Things to Come," as I couldn't think of a way to integrate it smoothly. Reviews -- whether comment or critique -- are swell.

If you like this story, "The Shape of Things to Come" is structurally a lot different, but tonally pretty similar (or at least, _I_ think so).

Enjoy.

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**Riordan**

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_It must be me,_ Riordan has decided: and not for the first time, either. This was his whole purpose in riding to Ferelden, after all. But his vow is refreshed anew when he sees them: the last two of their Order, the only Grey Wardens standing between the coming Blight and their war-torn country. They are young, the taint not yet eating its way through their bodies and hearts, and more importantly, they are in love.

It takes him a while to realize it; longer than it should. He tells himself that it's because the bonds of fraternity look much like love, and that at first this was all he suspected between them. They laugh with each other, fight side-by-side, _protect_ each other. These are things all Wardens do for their brothers and sisters, are they not?

But it is more than that. If there were any doubt of it before he called them to his room at the Arl's castle in Redcliffe, there can be none now. He watches their hearts break, together, because what is between them is more than camaraderie and even more than love: it is hope.

Hope that they might have a future with one another, after the Blight. It is a fantasy that has only grown as they have gathered their troops, begun to flex their newfound power, realized how strong they are, especially _united._

What force could possibly separate them, after all they have weathered?

What Darkspawn or demon could stand against them, if they stand together?

Riordan bids them goodnight, but not before telling them that he will deal the blow. They have decades: he has years. They have each other: he has no one. The choice is very clear. He only prays that Fate will be kind -- if not to him, then to these two.

He praysfor strength, agility, and oh-Maker-_please,_ for luck.

Turning to the mirror to view himself for a last time, he sighs through a thin smile.

Really, though, how had he _not_ seen it earlier?

_Because you are getting old,_ he thinks to himself, reaching out to touch his reflection: the lines on his face, the streak of grey, the weary eyes.

"Yes," he answers softly. "But not for much longer."

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**Loghain**

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"I will be his Champion."

This is the exact moment when Loghain realizes that today, he is going to die.

The fight, if it can even be called that, is over in less than a minute. Kneeling, he gasps, and his challenger's fingers twitch on the hilt of her swords -- but she withdraws. He is shamed _and_ he is impressed: but Maker, Duncan always did have an eye for them, didn't he?

He looks up at the Grey Warden with respect, now, and he is surprised to find himself longing to see the same returned in her gaze. However, there is nothing for him in those blue-grey eyes but-

No, not even disgust. Not even hatred. There is nothing there for _him_ at all.

_I did it for Ferelden!_ He wants to shout at her. _I swear it! I thought it was the right thing to do!_

If only she could understand! To die without being understood, that will be the worst of it. He is not afraid to die for his mistakes, but there is a sick-dead weight in his gut to know that he'll be remembered for dividing his country's people in their time of greatest need.

The older Grey Warden, the one he'd had imprisoned, speaks up. He suggests putting Loghain through the Joining, and Loghain almost laughs on the girl's behalf. Ah, but she is not a girl, is she? She is a woman, even if she can't be any older than Anora. Besides, he has no right to feel falsely paternal: he'd have murdered this young woman if he could. Maker knows he's tried. Twice today, in fact.

"No. This ends here." The Warden still won't even look at him, looks _through_ him, right down to the cold hard stone beneath his knees. Someone puts a sword in her hand, a big thing with a blade that must be half as long as her if it's an inch. Alistair continues to glare at him, and Loghain feels a dull pang of regret for not simply dealing with the boy when he first learned about his royal blood. It passes easily enough.

Still, if only this glacier-eyed Warden could understand all that he's given up: his honor, his daughter, his future. His life is means little, compared to these.

"Alistair," the woman says, strangely gentle, and offers the boy-Warden the sword. "You do it."

Her eyes flicker -- less than a heartbeat and it's gone again -- but Loghain catches it.

_It's not for her sake,_ he thinks feverishly, knowing that these last few words in his head will accompany him to the abyss. She isn't doing this for the memory of a dead mentor or a dead King or a dead army. She isn't doing it for justice. She's doing it for the man at her side.

He realizes that this woman will do anything for the Knight-child that steps up to him now. _Anything._ Just as he would for Ferelden, only she is an even fiercer opponent than he is. Than he was.

Than he ever will be.

The boy raises the sword, and Loghain stares up into his killer's eyes.

_You're the luckiest bastard alive._

The blade falls.

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**Duncan**

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Duncan knows that it is inevitable. He and his new charge, the young elf woman from Denerim, aren't even at Ostagar's gates yet -- and he knows.

She has been through a hellish experience, but he can see that underneath it she is steel-bright, and rebellious, and strong. That, and despite her sorrow, she laughs: not with her throat, but with her mouth and her teeth and her eyes. That will be the Templar's downfall, if nothing else.

From the moment she tried to run him out of the Alienage (him both armed and armored, and she neither) he had understood that destiny would have her as a Grey Warden; or that she would die in the Joining, Maker watch over her.

And when he had left her to go speak with the Elder, she still standing haughty and sullen and, of course, quite pretty, it had been impossible _not_ to know that other thing that destiny had in store.

He wants to believe that it had no effect on his decision, that he would have recruited her anyway. And perhaps he would have. But this, this fragile and timid warmth in his chest, this would not be here otherwise.

He and the young woman arrive at Ostagar, and he does his best not to show that she is his favorite of all the other potentials. After a brief meeting with the King -- the woman entirely unimpressed in a way that is both reckless and endearing at once -- Duncan pulls her to the side. He explains where she can find him later, and who she should go look for.

Duncan wants to be there, the moment they meet. He wants to see the world fall into place _just so_, as if with the subtle click of a door unlocked. But it is a rather selfish desire, and there are far too many things that need to be done.

They have a _Blight_ on their hands, after all.

In a moment of perfect stillness, he realizes it's the first time he's had to remind himself of the Darkspawn in... in far too long. He sends her on her way, watching her go. She is oblivious to Fate's hand guiding her, even if _he_ isn't.

For a short while the world is golden all over: he doesn't even see the grey.


End file.
